


safe underneath my skin

by mxrvxl



Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series), Watcher Entertainment RPF
Genre: (I guess?) - Freeform, At one point i do describe Ryan in great detail as a rotting corpse so watch out for that, Blowjobs, God i can’t think of what else to tag it with, Horror Elements, I love Ryan with all of my heart but i had to fuck him up bad for this one I’m so sorry, If you have any suggestions let me know, M/M, Mentions of PTSD, Mentions of Panic Attacks, handjobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-16 23:48:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28839657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mxrvxl/pseuds/mxrvxl
Summary: “Oh my God, Ryan,” Shane breathes, his hands shaking as they smooth over Ryan’s chest, over his arms and shoulders, like he’s trying to put Ryan back together just by touch. He wishes he could; he imagines the bones mending, the cuts healing.He can’t though. Each cut, each bruise, each broken bone remains, steadfast and unyielding.*Ryan gets mugged, and instead of calling the police, he calls Shane.
Relationships: Ryan Bergara/Shane Madej
Comments: 22
Kudos: 69





	safe underneath my skin

**Author's Note:**

> Alright! Let's get some warnings outta the way.
> 
> In this fic, near the end, are some pretty graphic descriptions of violence, and honestly, it gets a bit hairy. So, keep an eye out for that.
> 
> Throughout the fic, there are mentions of nightmares, PTSD, panic attacks, and death. If hospital type things trigger you as well, you may wanna click away entirely.
> 
> Overall, it's a balance between hurt/comfort, angst, fluff, and unyielding sarcasm from me.
> 
> If you, or someone you know appears in this fic, don’t read it. For my sanity, and yours, click away. Honestly, it’s not good enough for you to be reading, so....go away. :) love you xoxo
> 
> Hope you enjoy it! <3
> 
> PS: if there a is a stray /word like this/ please let me know. i don't have a beta reader, and using forward slashes is how i tell myself to italicize something when editing.

_Mamma Mia, here I go again_

_My, my, how can I resist ya?_

_Mamma Mia, does it show again?_

_My, my, just how much I missed ya!_

The sound of Shane’s phone is so _assaulting_ this early in the morning. Shane wakes with a start, registering dimly that Obi is hissing, having just been awoken from his own slumber.

Shane knows two things. One, it is much too early for this, and two, his phone is ringing. It’s Ryan.

He considers sending the call to voicemail, rolling over and going back to sleep, but something in his gut tells him that this is a call he needs to answer.

Annoyed, Shane picks up, “Ryan?” He asks. All manner of preamble gone, he wants to know why Ryan is calling him right now. Shane’s an old man, he needs his beauty sleep.

Ryan doesn’t immediately answer, but when he does, all annoyance flies out of the window.

“Shane?” There’s something in Ryan’s voice, and it awakens something deep within Shane. Something primal, some type of new terror.

“Ryan?” He asks again, his voice cracking, “Ryan, are you okay?”

Ryan takes a deep breath, and the pit in Shane’s stomach turns into a full on abyss. Ryan’s breath is rattling, and he hisses in pain after.

“I...I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have called,” Ryan says, and his voice is weak, and it sounds like he’s got a head cold. 

“Ryan, tell me what’s going on.” Shane demands, soft and curt, not wanting to panic Ryan even more.

“I...I got mugged.”

“What?!“ Shane exclaims, sitting up straighter. He can _feel_ each one of his nerves surge with panic.

“I got mugged. I...I’m in a bad way, Shane.”

“Where are you?” Shane asks, already out of bed. He’s holding the phone in between his shoulder and ear, trying to get a pair of pants on. He nearly falls, but manages to catch himself, hand braced against the wall. He’s shaking all over.

There’s a pause, and Shane can hear rustling on the other end of the line.

“Corner of...Corner of West 3rd and South Main.”

Shane's heart sinks, if possible, even deeper. Ryan is right near Skid Row, which is some place you do not want to be at 3:45 in the morning. Shane cannot imagine why the hell Ryan would be there, of all fucking places.

“What in the sweet _hell_ are you doing there, Ryan?”

“Got lost.”

Shane’s grabbing his keys off of the hook, and soon, he’s pounding down the stairs. He can’t be bothered to care about his sleeping neighbors.

“I’m on my way. Do not move, you hear me?”

“Got it.”

The line goes dead, and Shane almost feels like a little part of him dies with it. He’s fucking terrified of what he’ll find when he finds Ryan. His mind, entirely without his consent, keeps playing images over and over. God, what if Ryan was stabbed or something? What if he’s literally fucking dying? Shane absolutely kicks himself for even considering sending Ryan to voicemail.

He’s speeding down the LA streets. His apartment is a good 10 miles from where Ryan is, and every single red light Shane hits feels personal. 

Finally, Shane pulls up to the corner of West 3rd and South Main. Every single street light is out, and the only thing Shane has to light his way is his phone.

Shane gets out of his car, and it beeps when he locks it, and part of him feels betrayed when he hears it. Stupidly, he thinks _don’t give away my position_ , because he doesn’t know what could be lurking in the shadows. Part of him knows that he’s being ridiculous, it’s not like Jack The Ripper is going to come running out, ripping apparatus in hand. 

“Ryan?” He whisper-yells, and when he doesn’t hear anything back, he almost bursts into tears.

“Ryan?” He calls again, louder and stronger this time. This time, from the darkness, he hears a sound. A groan of pain. He pivots on the spot, shining his light, and he sees Ryan, slumped against a brick wall.

Shane rushes over, crouching down in front of him.

Shane gasps, almost comically. His hands shake as he puts them on Ryan’s shoulders.

Ryan’s face, for lack of a better term, looks like something straight out of a horror movie.

His left eye is completely swollen shut, there’s a nasty gash through his eyebrow, his lip is split and his jaw is bruised. His nose is bleeding profusely, and underneath all the blood and bruises, Ryan’s skin is pale, completely drained of color. Shane looks down at Ryan’s hands. Nausea surges in his throat, mixing with the panic. 

Ryan’s left hand is broken. His pinky and ring finger are sticking out at this odd angle, and it’s horribly red, and it’s swollen. 

Nothing could’ve ever prepared Shane for this. Every single nerve in his body, every single cell that he possesses is in panic mode. Shane doesn’t even want to think about what lurks beneath Ryan’s clothes. How many more bruises are there going to be? How much more blood?

“Oh my God, _Ryan_ ,” Shane breathes, his hands shaking as they smooth over Ryan’s chest, over his arms and shoulders, like he’s trying to put Ryan back together just by touch. He wishes he could; he imagines the bones mending, the cuts healing. 

He can’t though. Each cut, each bruise, each broken bone remains, steadfast and unyielding. 

Ryan is breathing shallowly, and it looks like every single breath is excruciating.

“Can you walk?” Shane asks. He’s hesitant to even move Ryan. 

Ryan shrugs, “I don’t know,” he breathes, and he flinches in pain again.

Shane tries to think, but his brain keeps _stopping_. He breathes in through his nose and out through his mouth a few times, trying to calm himself down. He looks around in the darkness, searching for an answer. People are already starting to come out of the shadows now. There’s someone milling around on the sidewalk opposite them, and Shane can hear distant arguing voices, growing steadily closer.

He doesn’t want to wait for an ambulance. He doesn’t think that they can afford to wait for an ambulance. He knows that he shouldn’t, but he maneuvers Ryan into a standing position, using the wall to keep him up, just until Shane can get Ryan’s right arm slung across his shoulders. When he attempts it, Ryan shouts in pain.

“What?” Shane asks, terrified.

“My ribs,” Ryan chokes out, “I think that they’re broken, I can’t breathe.”

Shane’s not a violent person, he doesn’t even like to kill spiders, but if he _ever_ finds who did this to Ryan, he is going to tear them limb from fucking limb. 

Shane settles for half carrying, half dragging Ryan to the car. It’s only like, ten feet, but every step is a new challenge. At one point, Ryan nearly falls, and Shane just barely catches him.

Once Shane’s got Ryan in the passenger seat, and buckled in, he dashes to the driver side of the car. He gets in, turns the car on, and he floors it.

The drive to the hospital is… treacherous. Shane acts as if his little Hyundai is in fact, an emergency vehicle. He speeds through two stop signs, and he gets them there in eight minutes flat.

He pulls up to the trauma center, and nurses and doctors come running out to meet him. 

“What happened?” One of them asks, helping Ryan out of the car, another grabbing a stretcher. Ryan’s lifted onto it. Shane is staring, he watches as they put a neck brace on him.

“Sir?” The nurse asks again, and he looks down at her. She has a kind face. She’s older, smile lines evident on her face. Her eyes are a lovely hazel, and her eyebrows are drawn together in concern. 

“H-He was mugged,” Shane stammers, wringing his hands together, “He called me- asked me to come get him, and when I got there he was on the ground. His hand is broken, and his ribs are too, they’ve gotta be, he can barely breathe.”

“Okay, patient name and date of birth, please.”

“Ryan Steven Bergara, 11/26/1990.”

“And your relation to him?”

This gives Shane pause. Best friend? Coworker? Boot bro?

“I-I’m his friend. We work together.”

“Okay.”

Ryan is wheeled through the double doors, and Shane tries to follow, but the nurse catches his arm.

“You can’t go in with him. I can take you to the waiting room. Does he have any family that you can call?”

Shane nods, following the nurse to the waiting room. It’s mostly empty. There’s one other person there. A woman, gray hair tied back in a tight knit bun. She’s staring blankly at the wall, chewing on her nails, bouncing her leg.

“Take a seat here, sir, and when his family comes, have them come up to the front desk.”

“Okay,” Shane says, sinking into the chair.

He pulls out his phone, with shaking hands, and dials Ryan’s parents. They have a landline still, but after a few rings, the machine picks up.

“Hi! This is the Bergara residence. We are currently on a cruise, and won’t be back until the 24th. Please leave your name, number, and a brief message and we will get back to you as soon as we can!”

Fuck, Shane had totally forgotten. Ryan’s parents had taken a cruise for their anniversary, and Jake had gone with. Ryan had stayed here, to work on something for Unsolved.

Shane was all Ryan had right now.

*

The sun was beginning to rise by the time someone came to get Shane.

There had been a rather horrible moment where a doctor had come out into the waiting room, and both him and the woman had stood. The doctor made his way to the woman, and had told her that her son had died. Shane isn’t ever going to forget the sound of anguish that had left her, the misery. The staff had led her somewhere else, to grieve without the prying ears and eyes of others.

This time, when those doors opened, Shane stood. His hands were shaking and his body ached from sitting in that chair, but all of that was nothing compared to the rising terror in his chest, wondering what they were going to tell him.

“Are you here for Ryan Bergara?” The nurse asks, and Shane nods.

“Yeah, I’m the only one, his family is on a cruise. It’s just...it’s just me.

She nods, “You can come see him now.”

She leads him through the doors. She pulls her badge from the clip on her scrubs, and presses it against the lock. It chirps happily, turns green, and Shane can hear the lock click open. 

She pushes through them, and Shane follows, ducking under the door frame.

She leads him down a labyrinth of hallways. He can’t help but look into the other rooms that they pass. In one of them, an old man is holding hands with his wife, while she reads to him. In another, there’s a young boy, cuddled in between his two dads, while they watch something on an iPad.

Finally, they reach Ryan’s room. Shane wants to squeeze his eyes shut as they nurse pulls back the curtains, but he forces himself to look.

As the curtain is pulled, it reveals Ryan, in a seated position. His head lolls back against his pillow, and he’s breathing slowly.

“We had to give him some local anesthetic, so we could set his hand.” The nurse says softly, “We took him back for x-rays, and his ribs are broken, but for those, he doesn’t require any surgery. The doctor stitched up his eyebrow, just as a precaution.”

“What about his hand?” Shane asks, walking to Ryan’s bedside. There’s a cannula in his nose.

“We’ll have to see. The way in which it was broken tore some of his ligaments, as well as fracturing the bone in multiple places. He may require surgery, but we will have to see how he fares with the cast first.”

Shane nods, looking down at his face. It’s no longer bloody, and a bit of color has returned to it, but it doesn’t ease the feeling in Shane’s gut. His eye is still swollen shut. His lip is still split. There’s a deep purple bruise blooming on his jaw.

“I’ll leave you to it.” The nurse says. 

Shane turns to thank her, but she’s already gone.

*

Shane doesn’t know what to do. He’s hesitant about taking Ryan’s hand in his own, he’s hesitant to even talk to him, like they do in the movies. He pulls up a chair, and sits down at Ryan’s bedside, watching him.

Ryan’s chest rises and falls slowly. The machine that he’s hooked up to beeps softly. Not loud enough to be annoying, but just loud enough to let Shane know that Ryan’s heart is still beating. It’s comforting, in a way. This machine, that is designed to do this one thing, is doing it. Each beep that indicates a heartbeat, each spike in the line feels like a whispered reassurance.

Beep, he’s alive.

Beep, he’s going to be okay.

Beep, beep, beep.

Shane sits in the silence for a few minutes. Even though he knows they probably won’t see it, he texts Ryan’s family, explaining what happened.

“Hey,” Ryan croaks, and Shane’s head snaps up.

“Hi.” Shane sighs, scooting his chair closer. His hand closes around Ryan’s, and Ryan flips his over, to hold Shane’s.

“How ya feeling?” Shane asks, squeezing Ryan’s hand a little.

“Tired. In pain. Stupid.”

“Why do you feel stupid?” 

“Should’ve just given ‘em my wallet, right? But I was drunk. Feeling stupid. Acting stupid.”

Shane stares at Ryan, eyebrows drawing together in confusion.

“You were drunk? Why were you out by yourself?”

Ryan shrugs evasively, “I’m a big boy, Shane, I can go out on my own, ya know.”

“That’s - that’s not what I meant.”

What exactly Shane means, he never gets to say, because the doctor is coming in. 

“Well, well, well Mr. Bergara, you gave us quite a fright.” She says, and although her tone is light, her words seem accusatory.

“What do you mean?” Ryan asks.

“Oh, nothin’,” She waves her hand, wrinkling her nose, “I’ve been told my ‘bedside manner’ needs some work. Your O sat dropped a couple times, probably due to the damage to your ribs. That’s why you’re on the oxygen.”

Ryan nods, lifting the hand that isn’t holding Shane’s to his nose, feeling along the plastic tubing. It’s wrapped thickly, in a soft cast. His ring and pinky fingers are wrapped up too.

“Here’s the deal,” she says, “I’m not gonna beat around the bush, you might need surgery on your hand. We’ll see how it goes, with the cast, and I’ll need you back here in two weeks for your hard cast. If you do require surgery, you will most likely need to do some physical therapy. With a break like this one, it’s hard to know until some time passes. We’ll just have to wait and see, unfortunately.”

Shane sighs, looking at Ryan’s hand. It looks strange, bound up like that. 

“As for your other injuries,” She says, shuffling some papers, “For your eye, I would recommend a warm/hot compress, for a few minutes at a time, a few times a day. I stitched up your eyebrow, as a precaution. It’s a tricky part of the face, we tend to use it much more than we think, so keep an eye on that. As for your ribs, they should heal on their own. We’re sending you home with pain medication, and we’ve sent a prescription to your pharmacy, for you to pick up at your leisure. You also have a minor concussion, which is no surprise. It shouldn’t cause any problems, but if it does, come on back and we’ll take care of you, alright?”

She turns her gaze to Shane, smiling, “I have some printouts here for you to take home with you.”

“I…” he takes the folder that she hands him, glancing at Ryan, “We don’t live together.”

She blinks, eyes darting from him to Ryan, and back again.

“Will you be staying with him?”

Shane looks at Ryan, “I-I...If he needs me to, yeah. Do you want me to stay with you?”

Ryan considers this for a moment, “I mean, I guess you could for a couple days. Just until I’m out of the woods, I guess? I mean, my parents and Jake won’t be back for two weeks.”

The doctor claps her hands, “Then, those are in fact, for you!” She says, smiling down at Shane.

“I’ll send in someone to help you out with your discharge paperwork, and then you guys are free to leave. It was nice to meet you, and if you need anything, don’t hesitate to call.”

“Thank you, Doctor…?” Shane extends his hand to shake hers.

“Doctor Jones.” She says, pointing to the badge clipped to her collar.

Shane smiles, being put in mind of Indiana Jones, and distantly, he thinks of Short Round yelling, “Doctor Jones, no time for love!”

“Thanks, Dr. Jones.”

*

Shane has Ryan by the elbow, and is leading him up the stairs to Shane’s apartment. They’ve already been by Ryan’s place, picked up everything he needs for a few days at Shane’s. They had chosen Shane’s apartment, because despite being almost thirty, Ryan’s roommates are rambunctious, and sometimes act like they’re still in college. The printouts that Dr. Jones had given Shane greatly emphasized Ryan’s need for rest and relaxation, and the only way he was going to get it was if he was at Shane’s.

Ryan’s foot slips off of the stair, and Shane doubles his hold on Ryan.

“Sorry,” Ryan mumbles, stepping up again, “My depth perception is completely fucked.”

“It’s fine, that’s why I’m here.” Shane encourages, helping Ryan up the next few steps. When they reach the landing, Ryan leans against the wall, exhaustion painted all over his face. Shane unlocks his door, and helps Ryan in again. 

“Alright, sit down right here for a second, and I’m gonna go change the sheets on the bed, and you’re gonna get some rest, okay?”

Ryan looks up at him, “Where are you gonna sleep?”

“The couch pulls out.”

“Shane, come on, I’m not gonna take your bed, I can sleep on the couch-,”

“No arguing. You need your rest, and you’re not gonna get it on the pull out. Besides, it’s just for a few days, Ryan, it’s not gonna kill me.”

Ryan looks like he wants to keep arguing, but he shuts his mouth. Obi comes prancing into the room then, tail held high, meowing in greeting. He rubs up against Ryan’s legs. He hops up on the table, bumping his head against Ryan’s head, demanding pets. Ryan complies, scratching him behind his ears, and under his chin. Obi purrs in delight.

“This man,” Shane says accusingly, looking at Obi, “Only in it for the scritches.”

“It’s his world and we live in it.”

*

Ryan sleeps for the rest of the day. That evening, he comes padding out of Shane’s room, hair tousled and face groggy. Shane’s on the couch, legs resting atop the coffee table. He’s been emailing with work all day, changing their schedule for filming. The next season of Unsolved will have to come out later than they expected, but they hadn’t announced a release date anyway, so it’s not a big deal.

“Hey, I ordered some Thai, if you’re hungry.” Shane says, setting his laptop down and standing. He stretches, his back cracking. He makes his way into the kitchen, grabbing a take out container, “We’ve got curry, and some stir fry.”

Ryan nods, “I’ll have the curry, if that’s cool.”

Shane nods, turning to pop it into the microwave.

“How are you feeling?” Shane asks, leaning against the counter. The microwave hums softly.

Ryan sighs, “Like shit. I still have to email work, explain what happened, fuck.”

“I already did. They’ve changed the filming schedule. The show will have to come out later than expected, but you’re the first priority, so they’ll just have to deal.”

Ryan scoffs, “Yeah, I bet they were real happy about that.” 

Shane inclines his head, “Not particularly, but I made it clear that if they don’t make the time, they’re not getting a season at all.”

Ryan gazes at him in surprise, “Damn, don’t fuck with Shane Madej.”

“Right.” Shane says, turning to pull the curry out of the microwave. It burns his fingers a little, but he doesn’t mind. He sets it on a plate, and carries it over to the table for Ryan, going back for a spoon.

“Thanks, man. Can’t really do much with this,” Ryan says, gesturing to his cast.

“No problem.”

*

The first couple days are hard, to say the least.

Ryan is an all or nothing kind of guy. He’s impatient, and he wants nothing more than to forget that this ever happened, and move on. But, time and life don’t work that way, and it is _severely_ annoying.

He feels guilty, and a little embarrassed. Shane’s waiting on him hand and foot, he’s sleeping in Shane’s bed, he’s showering in Shane’s shower. He feels like a little mooch, and there’s not a feeling in the world that he hates more.

On top of all of that, he’s weak. If he stands up too fast, his vision swims and he has to sit back down before he falls down. Even with the painkillers, each breath hurts. Occasionally, a sharp pain will shoot around his left hand, like a ball being slapped around by the bumpers in a pinball machine. The swelling in his eye is finally starting to go down, but the hot compresses hurt more than they relieve, and he just _fucking hates this_.

On the third day, he’s getting ready to shower. He has to wrap that stupid cast in plastic each time, and he has to do it with one hand.

He’s tried, and failed, three times to accomplish it, and he just gives up.

“Shane?” He calls, “Can you come help me a sec?”

Shane’s there in a flash, pushing open the bathroom door.

“What’s up?” He asks.

“Can you help me with this stupid fucking plastic? I can’t get it.”

Shane complies, nimble fingers securing the plastic at Ryan’s elbow, tying it in a neat little knot.

“Thanks, man.”

Shane nods, but he’s not looking at Ryan. Well, not into his face, anyway.

Ryan has a towel wrapped around his waist, and his chest and back are on full display. For the first time, Shane is seeing the damage that lurked underneath Ryan’s clothes.

Bruises cover Ryan’s rib cage. They’re a deep, dark purple with red and blue blooming around the edges. Shane looks nothing less of horror struck. Ryan can almost _hear_ the thoughts running through Shane’s head, and he can feel Shane working himself up into a panic.

“Shane…” He says cautiously, “You with me?”

Shane’s eyes snap up, and he meets Ryan’s gaze.

“Yeah! Yeah, sorry,” he says, and it comes out in a breathy little pant, twinging with anxiety.

“I’m okay,” Ryan reassures him, “Well, _okay_ is relative, at this point. But I’m gonna be, alright? That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

Shane nods stiffly, and Ryan claps him on the shoulder.

“Cool. I’m gonna shower now, okay?”

Shane nods again, and takes his leave, closing the bathroom door behind him with a soft creak.

Ryan takes stock of the bruises. He runs his hand along them, flinching a little when he hits a particularly tender spot. 

He glares at his reflection in the mirror, and he can’t help but blame himself.

*

Shane’s in the closet.

Literally, he’s hiding in his closet. It was the only place in the apartment he could think of going to.

He’s crying, and he’s crying _hard_.

As far as he can remember, he’s never had a panic attack, but he’s almost positive he’s having one now. 

His breath is coming out in short little puffs, and along with the tears coursing down his face, his hands shake at his sides. He paces, only taking a few steps at a time, because even though this is a walk in closet, it’s small, and it’s cramped, and he keeps bumping into his clothes on the hanger and the pull string from the light. 

Obviously the closet wasn’t his first choice for his very first panic attack, but he didn’t want Ryan seeing him like this. 

All the feelings, all the tension, all the fear he’d been feeling had been simmering inside, and after seeing those awful bruises, it had finally boiled over. 

The printouts that Dr. Jones had given him swum around in his mind. He’d read them all on that first day, his concern growing deeper and deeper as he did. 

Head: patient could begin to have seizures. 

Hand: patient may require surgery, and physical therapy.

Eye: patients' vision could change, or be lost.

Ribs: patients lung could collapse. Patients lung could be punctured. Patients lung could fill with blood. Patient could die. 

Okay, maybe not that last one, but _still._

He hasn’t known the extent of what the damage was to his ribs, but when he saw those horrible bruises, his mind went into overdrive. 

What if they hadn’t caught something? What if Ryan’s lungs were filling with fluid right now, drowning him slowly?

What if, _what if_ , **_what if?_**

There were too many questions, and not enough answers. 

Shane slides down the wall, putting his head between his knees, trying to calm himself. Each time he does, his sobs only worsen. 

Unbidden in his mind, the image of that woman came to him, and he could hear her wail of agony, as the doctor told her that someone she loved, someone she cherished, someone she had memories of, had died. 

Shane seals his hands over his mouth, trying to muffle the sound of his sobs. It was too horrible to think about, too horrible to imagine, and yet here he was, a victim of his own brain, a brain that was thinking of these things without his consent, and he wants, he _needs_ for it to stop, because he needs to be here for Ryan right now- 

“Shane?”

It’s almost comical, the way that Shane instantly stops crying. 

Ryan is standing there, having just opened the door. He’s staring down at Shane, eyebrows drawn together in concern. The harsh light from the window streams in behind him, silhouetting him. 

Shane stands hurriedly, tripping over himself as he does. His shoulder bumps into some hangers, and they’re knocked off of the rod, falling to the floor. He’s hurriedly wiping his eyes, wiping his nose on his sleeve, trying to look like he hadn’t just been having a panic attack. 

“Are you okay?” Ryan asks, a tentative note in his voice, “Were you...are you crying?”

“No.” Shane blurts out. His nose is running, and he has to sniffle. 

“Shane,” Ryan exasperates, pulling him out of the closet and shutting it behind him, “Come on, man. It’s just me.”

Shane sits on the bed, back straight and arms stiff. He doesn’t meet Ryan’s gaze, he can’t meet Ryan’s gaze, so he stares at the wall. 

Shane’s from the Midwest. Even though geographical location should have nothing to do with your emotional intelligence, it does. Even though he’s been in LA for so long now, where therapy is something of a spectator sport, and he’s more progressive than say, his dad or his uncle, he still finds it hard to emote, to talk about his feelings. There’s something about being vulnerable, truly vulnerable around people that is so bone chilling to him. 

He knows it’s a problem. He’s been told it’s a problem. Girlfriends in the past have told him it’s an issue, and try as he might to work on it, it’s something that he can’t unlearn easily. 

Ryan’s staring at him, and Shane meets his gaze for half a second, but it burns and it’s too hot and too much and he-

He stares at the wall again.

“Shane.” Ryan says, sitting down on the bed next to him, “Shane, look at me, man.” 

Shane turns to look at him, his neck stiff. It’s almost robotic, and Shane half expects his joints to creak like the Tin Man. 

Ryan’s gaze is steady, unwavering. The swelling on his eye is starting to go down. It’s still bruised pretty badly, but he can open it.

“Talk to me.”

Shane exhales, hands coming to wring in his lap, “I just...I got in my head, that’s all. I’m fine, Ryan, really.”

“Got in your head about what?”

Shane doesn’t want to say it, he doesn’t want Ryan to know what he knows.

“Nothing, it doesn’t matter.”

“Shane,” Ryan says, sternly, “Come on. Please? I just...I wanna help.”

“I’m the one that’s supposed to be helping _you_ , I’m the one that’s supposed to be there for _you_ , it’s not fair of me to freak out like that. You were the one who was mugged, not me. You are the one with the broken hand, with the broken ribs, not me.” 

It all spills from Shane’s mouth so quickly, and he’s standing now, pacing, his agitation with himself coming out of him in waves.

“Shane-“ 

“I mean, just-“ Shane runs his hands through his hair, “God! It’s just, you’re the one that’s hurting right now, you’re the one that needs the support and it’s not-“

“Shane, I-“

“I just can’t go losing my edge, not when you need me, I can’t just lose it every time you get hurt. I mean, what? Am I gonna faint the next time you stub your toe? It’s just-“

“Shane!” Ryan exclaims, and he’s standing now too, his hands on Shane’s forearms, grounding him. 

Shane’s mouth shuts with a click, and he looks down at Ryan. 

“Okay, first of all, it’s fine for you to cry. It’s healthy for you to cry. Second, don’t feel bad for feeling this way. It’s totally normal for people to feel like this when someone they care about is hurting. It’s okay for them to lose it, they don’t have to be the rock all the time. Jesus, Shane,” Ryan sighs, and for the first time in three days, he smiles, “You’re only human.”

Shane nods, “Okay. Okay. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. Just…” Ryan sighs, rubbing the back of his neck, “Don’t be so hard on yourself, okay?” 

Shane nods, and he leaves so Ryan can get dressed. 

*

As it turns out, Ryan is only human too.

He had been ignoring the nightmares that had been knocking, he’d been ignoring the flashbacks, been ignoring the pain, the best he could.

The painkillers help, sure, but they were designed to stop signals from his nerves reaching his brain. 

The emotional duress of it all, was originating in his brain, and it was staring to accumulate more and more, until the dam breaks, and Ryan gets washed away. 

Ryan’s been at Shane’s for five days now. It’s not like they agreed on a set number of days, but Ryan’s comfortable here. It’s quiet, with the exception of Obi’s persistent meowing in the morning. 

It’s peaceful, and that’s what Ryan needs. Every day, he improves a bit more. The bruises are starting to fade. He can fully open his eye, and his breathing is starting to ease. 

But as each physical ailment dwindles away, Ryan panics more and more. 

The pain, the real, physical pain had given him something to focus on, something to dwell on. He could grit his teeth, and he could bear it. He could kick it in the ass. He could beat it. 

But, mental trauma isn’t like that. It just doesn’t go away, it’s there forever, and over time, it may get better, but healing from something like that, it’s not a straight line. There’s twists, and turns and sometimes it feels like you’re back there, experiencing it all over again. 

*

For the second time that week, Obi is woken from his slumber. 

Ryan wakes up screaming. Obi careens from the room, hissing and spitting in distress. Shane comes tearing into the room a second later, tripping over Obi in his haste. 

He falls through the door frame, catching himself on the edge of the bed.

“Ryan, Ryan, hey,” he coos, sitting on the bed and smoothing his hands over Ryan’s shoulders. 

Ryan’s crying, breathing sharp and fast through sobs, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, go back to sleep, it was just a-a nightmare-“ 

Shane shushes him, “Ryan, stop, stop, it’s okay, I’m not going anywhere-“

“No, really!” Ryan sobs, “I’m fine, I’m fine, just go back to sleep-“

“Stop,” Shane says, pulling Ryan into a hug, “Just stop. It’s okay, I’m here.”

Ryan freezes, eyes wide for a second. 

Then, he just _melts._

He grips the back of Shane’s shirt, and tucks his head into Shane’s shoulder, and finally, he lets go. 

He cries, unabashedly. Sobs rip through him, misery and anguish and pain and fear flood from him. It’s horrible to listen to, but Shane does. He rubs Ryan’s back, and he holds him tight.

He tells Ryan that he’s here. He tells Ryan that he’s safe. He tells Ryan that it’s going to be okay. He tells Ryan to let it out, just like Ryan had told him. 

And Ryan does. He cries for a long time. He cries until he can’t anymore, until the pain in his ribs is too much. He hiccups himself down, and soon, he’s got his head against Shane’s chest, ear pressed just above his heart, and Shane still has his arms around him, and they’re swaying a little on the spot. 

Ryan sniffles, wiping his nose on his sleeve. 

“Better?” Shane asks, arms still wrapped tight around Ryan. 

“Yeah.” Ryan croaks, pulling away gently. 

He sits up straight, taking a few deep breaths. He looks out the window, watching the city lights twinkle in the distance. 

Shane’s hand comes up to his face, cupping it gently. He wipes the tear tracks away with his thumb. Ryan looks at him, and Shane looks back, and smiles a little sadly.

“Hey,” he says gently, “You’re only human.” 

It’s _so_ intimate. Maybe it’s just because they’re both tired, and their guard is down, or maybe it’s because six days in an apartment together is drawing new lines for their relationship, or maybe it’s just because it’s a full moon, but they never would’ve held each other like this, never would’ve touched each other like this. 

Shane’s hand falls away from Ryan’s face, and he starts to get up. 

Ryan reaches out, fingers digging into Shane’s shoulder. 

“Don’t go.” He chokes out, “Please.”

Shane nods, and Ryan moves, scooting over to make room. 

Shane crawls into bed. The pullout isn’t the most comfortable thing, and when Shane sinks into this mattress, his back nearly screams in relief.

He turns on his side, facing Ryan. Ryan’s facing him too, and there’s something in his face. An unreadable emotion mars his features, embedding itself in every line, every muscle. He looks apprehensive, he looks lost, it’s- 

It’s his eyes. They have this longing, yearning, _desperate_ look in them.

Shane wants to reach out, wants to hold his hand or stroke his cheek. Some form of touch, some form of intimacy that’ll say what he’s thinking, without words. Shane doesn’t really know the words for this, though. How do you tell someone that you want to dig in their brain, in their heart, in their soul and take away whatever’s hurting them? How do you possibly say that?

Shane doesn’t want to break eye contact. They gaze at each other for a long time, both of them trying to figure out what to say, trying to figure out if there’s anything _to_ say. 

Ryan moves, and Shane figures out what he’s doing a couple seconds before he does it. 

Ryan curls into Shane’s chest, pushing his head into the crook of Shane’s neck and wrapping his arms around Shane’s middle. Shane wraps his arms around Ryan, one across the back of his shoulders and one draped over his side. He rests his cheek on top of Ryan’s head. Their legs tangle.

Finally, Shane finds his voice.

“I’ve got you.”

*

The next morning, Ryan’s in the kitchen, watching the coffee brew. His hands are in his sweat pockets, and his shoulders are hunched. He looks closed off, like a wounded animal shying away from a helping hand. Shane can tell, just by looking at him, that he _does not_ want to talk about last night, so Shane doesn’t mention it. Instead, he busies himself with breakfast.

As he stirs the eggs in the pan, he thinks back to last night. He _knows_ Ryan, he knows that things like that, showing such vulnerability are hard for him. He doesn’t boil it down to something as simple as Ryan being closed off emotionally. Shane knows that he’s not like that. They’ve had plenty of emotional conversations, and Shane’s seen Ryan cry more than once. The thing that’s different about this situation is that Ryan sought out physical comfort, which is something that he’s never done in the entire time Shane’s known him.

Shane can’t help but feel that something has changed between them, something that now, can’t go back to the way it was before. Maybe he’s reading into it too much, but he glances at Ryan, and somehow, he doesn’t think he is.

He sets down Ryan’s eggs and buttered toast in front of him, and goes to make himself a cup of coffee. He sees Ryan watching him out of the corner of his eye and he glances over, eyebrow arched.

“Ryan, you okay?” He asks, heaping sugar into his cup and stirring it. The spoon clinks gently against the ceramic mug.

“Yeah, I’m okay.” Ryan breathes out, and there’s unmistakable relief in his voice. The air changes, almost like the entire apartment had been holding its breath, waiting for an explosion that never came. The energy becomes lighter, and when Shane sits next to Ryan at the kitchen table, Ryan actually smiles at him, before digging into his eggs. Shane sips his coffee, smiling to himself.

*

‘A few days’ has turned into a week. 

Shane opens the door, duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He’s just been to Ryan’s apartment to grab him some more clothes, and a few select movies that Ryan had requested. 

“Hey.” Ryan calls from his place on the couch. His laptop is perched on his lap, and he’s trying, and failing, to type out notes for Unsolved with one hand. 

“Hey,” Shane calls, going to deposit Ryan’s clothes in the bedroom, “How you feelin’?” 

Ryan huffs in irritation, “Useless,” he calls back, deleting an entire sentence of gibberish from his notes, “I hate this, not being able to type. I’m so fucking bored, Shane. I gotta do something.”

Shane comes back into the living room, setting Ryan’s DVDs on top of the entertainment center. He frowns at Ryan, giving him an accusatory look. 

“Ryan, we talked about this.” 

“I know, I know, but-“

“No buts. We agreed that you’d take at least another week off of work. We gotta get your headaches under control.”

The way that Shane speaks about it makes Ryan’s stomach twinge. He used words like “we” and “us” a lot these days. He talks about Ryan’s recovery as it was both of their jobs, almost like they were...a couple, or something. Ryan doesn’t know if it makes him uncomfortable or… hopeful. Either way, his breath catches every time Shane says it. 

Ryan does have a splitting headache. Due to his concussion, it’s been hard for him to look at screens for too long, even though Dr. Jones had said that his concussion was mild at best. 

Ryan sighs, closing his laptop, “Fine,” he admonishes dramatically, and Shane smiles, catching the sarcasm. 

“Thank you.”

He goes to make dinner, and Ryan leans back against the couch, closing his eyes, willing his pulse to return to normal.

*

Ryan’s far from recovered when he decides to leave. 

It’s getting too be a bit too much, too fast. It’s not Shane’s fault. Shane is wonderful, giving him his space when he needs it, or sitting with him quietly when Ryan starts to feel panicky again. 

Ever since that night, they’d been sharing the bed. It’s comforting to have someone else there, to feel that tangible weight on the other side of the mattress. It makes Ryan feel less alone, and he feels more human when Shane is there. 

He’s been having trouble with feeling human lately. 

Being hurt like that is, at it’s core, dehumanizing. The people who had robbed him had wanted one thing, and one thing only, his wallet. They didn’t care where he had bought the wallet, they didn’t care about the picture of his family that he kept in there, from their annual trip to Disney. They didn’t care about the boba punch card, or the little slip of paper that some girls number was written upon. 

This little thing, that typically seemed so mundane, had been what Ryan had been boiled down to. A couple of credit cards, and 50 bucks in cash. 

He knows that he’s worth more than that. He knows that his family, and his friends love him, and he knows that material things are...material. 

That night, when they crawl into bed, Ryan turns towards Shane. Shane’s propped up against the pillows, reading a book by lamplight. A soft orange glow shines around the room, giving it a sleepy, candlelit feel.

Shane does this really weird thing where he writes in books. He has a pen in his other hand, and sometimes, he’ll read for pages and pages without annotating, but other times, he’ll annotate an entire page.

Ryan watches him do this for a good 10 minutes. Shane is so intent on defacing his books that he doesn’t notice that Ryan’s watching him. He bookmarks his page, and sets it on the nightstand, and turns towards Ryan. 

“Shit, were you just...watching me? That whole time?” Shane asks, narrowing his eyes behind his favorite pair of old man glasses, and Ryan has to laugh.

“It’s fun to watch you being weird.” Ryan says sheepishly, shrugging a bit.

Shane makes a face at him, and takes off his glasses and sets them on the nightstand. He turns back over to face Ryan. His face is soft, adoring, and it all feels too squishy, and fluffy, and Ryan’s been starting to panic, for awhile now.

There’s been this glow-y, flirty energy between them these past few days. It’s like they’re in a balloon, heading steadfast toward a power line or a pin.

A power line would give them that spark, that little bit of momentum to dive into something new, to take that final step, and have that cliched but ever so satisfying first kiss. The proverbial camera would spin around them, while they were showered in sparks of gold light and the music would swell, and the credits would roll.

Or, they’d hit the pin. Instead of catching fire, they’d deflate. Back into nothing, back into those two interns who sat opposite each other, not knowing and not caring. Maybe in ten years, it’d be okay. Maybe in twenty. Or maybe, it would never be okay, and everything that they had built around them would deflate too, leaving nothing but a mess of plastic on the ground, destined to be swept away without so much as a second glance.

They’ve been teetering on that edge, for _days_ now, and Ryan can feel it. He feels hot and cold all at once, and his heart and stomach have been in knots, and fuck, fuck, _fuck_ , Shane looks so good right now, with his tousled hair and that little indent across the bridge of his nose from those _stupid_ glasses, and the lighting is _just right_ -

Ryan doesn’t know why he does it. He can’t remember making the decision to do it, but in a second, in the blink of an eye, he’s kissing Shane.

It’s just a shy press of lips, barely more than a middle school peck, and Ryan is pulling away a millisecond later.

He opens his eyes, and Shane is staring back at him.

He looks confused. His eyebrows are drawing together, and he’s getting an incredulous look on his face, and Ryan realizes, with cold terror rising in his chest, that it’s the same expression that Shane gives him when Ryan proposes a particularly outlandish theory on Unsolved.

“Ryan-“ Shane starts, but there is no way in _hell_ that Ryan could stand hearing the rest of what Shane is about to say.

“We should get some sleep.” Ryan says, the words escaping him like a shot fired from a gun.

Without another word, he’s turning over.

The light clicks off a second later, and Shane doesn’t utter a single word.

*

When Shane wakes up in the morning, Ryan’s gone.

A quick look around the apartment tells him that Ryan’s things are also gone.

There’s a note stuck to the fridge, written in Ryan’s familiar feverish chicken scratch.

_Need some time. Not your fault, just got in my head. See you soon._

_-Ryan_

Shane takes a deep breath, glaring at the note with supreme disdain. That little _motherfucker_. He yanks it off the fridge, and tears it in half.

Fucking Ryan.

He tears it in fourths.

Leaving like that, in the middle of the night.

He tears it in eighths.

Leaving Shane, with no explanation. Leaving Shane, with nothing but a keening panic in his heart, because Shane knows now what he probably knew all along.

Shane is in love with Ryan, and frankly, it’s the worst thing that has ever happened to him.

This life that he has built for himself in Los Angeles, this life that he loves despite its ups and downs, is now contingent on Ryan. They’ve built all of this, together. They’ve fought this war together, against BuzzFeed’s soul sucking executives, against YouTube, against everything. Despite all that, they’ve managed to rise above.

Shane has everything to lose, and the realization nearly knocks him out.

The remnants of Ryan’s note fall from Shane’s hand, fluttering to the floor, like the most depressing confetti ever.

Shane follows suit, sinking down to the floor. He puts his face in his hands, and lets go.

*

Ryan isn’t faring so well himself.

It’s been a couple days since he left Shane’s, and despite the burning embarrassment and despair that prickles on the back of his neck every single time he thinks of Shane, he’s also paranoid as shit.

His roommates know that he was mugged, but they aren’t as...sensitive to the issue as Shane had been.

“Fuck, man! Look at that!” says Roland, leaning in close to look at the stitches across Ryan’s eyebrow, “Let’s hope that leaves a scar, that’ll be bitchin’.”

And, yeah, it might be _bitchin’_ some day, but it’s certainly not now.

He’s been jumping at loud noises, which is a huge issue, because LA is nothing but loud. A car backfired while he was in the shower and he nearly broke his neck. He doesn‘t feel safe going out on his own, and yesterday, he had a panic attack in Trader Joe’s while looking at pistachios. 

When he gets home from getting his hard-cast, his roommates are gone, off to Vegas or something, Ryan can’t remember. As rambunctious and annoying as they are, having other people in the house was helping to stave off his panic. But now, he’s alone again, in an unusually silent apartment, and the panic creeps in again.

He eats dinner, and considers texting Shane about 17 times.

He watches ESPN for a few hours, dividing his attention between his phone and the TV. He’s been stalking Shane on Instagram and Facebook, but Shane’s gone radio silent. There’s nothing on any of his socials, and Ryan looks, with some trepidation, to see if Shane is still following him on social media. He is, which Ryan’s desperate brain takes as a good sign.

Still, though. He hasn’t heard a peep from Shane in days, and it’s making him itchy. Shane had always made him feel...safe. Normal. Shane had wormed his way into Ryan’s heart, and Ryan had become dependent on him. He needed Shane to reel him back in, he needed Shane to be there, that constant, strong force of unyielding defiance and strength.

If there wasn’t so much on the line, and if there wasn’t so much to lose, Ryan would’ve been quite satisfied with loving Shane. Shane is quite the man, which is something that Ryan had always appreciated about him. There was something about the goofy fuck, something so deeply endearing about him. Maybe it was the way he went off on tangents when he got excited, or how loud he got when he was drunk. Maybe it was everything about him, but all Ryan knew, curled up on this couch, is that _nothing_ would ever be the same.

*

Shane’s sleep schedule had been totally fucked since Ryan left.

They’d fallen into a routine, a very comfy, domestic one. 

Most nights, they’d stay up, watching something stupid on TV. Ryan would usually doze off on the couch, and Shane would have to prod him awake, and convince him to go to bed. 

Shane would coax a sleepy, protesting Ryan to the bedroom, and would get him in bed.

Then, he’d get everything ready for the next morning. He’d set Ryan’s morning pain pills on the nightstand, with a cup of water. 

Then he’d crawl into bed next to Ryan, listening to his deep, solid breathing, letting it lull him to sleep. 

Now, with Ryan gone, all he had to listen to was the ticking of the analog clock his mom had given him. 

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. 

The only breathing he could hear was his own, and even though the room was perfectly warm, something about it felt cold and foreboding.

Empty. 

Tonight, like each night since Ryan had left, Shane stares up at the ceiling. He counts the divots in it, stares at the water stain in the corner. 

Tonight, like each night, he wishes Ryan were here. 

And tonight, like each night, he falls asleep well after midnight, feeling empty. 

*

Shane opened his eyes. 

His room was exactly the same as it had been, but every nerve he possessed was telling him to run. 

The clock had stopped ticking. 

The city noises had ceased.

Shane couldn’t hear his own breathing, couldn’t hear the swish of the sheets as he squirmed, trying to get his bearings. 

Then, his eyes landed at the edge of his bed. 

There stood Ryan. His face was bloodied, like it had been that night. His nose steadily dripped blood onto his shirt, onto the carpet below.

There was _something_ in his expression, some primal sort of hunger.

“R-Ryan?” Shane asked, paralyzed. 

Ryan’s eyes opened. They were completely white. They looked as though no life had ever existed in them, or ever could exist within them. There was _nothing_ there. His mouth opened, and tarry, black blood pooled out, dripping onto Shane’s sheets, onto the carpet. He began to crawl up the bed, his bones and muscles contorting, cracking and bending in ways that they shouldn’t be. Shane tried to scramble away, away from Ryan, not _his Ryan,_ but whatever Ryan had become, but it pinned him with it’s rotting hands, and leaned close.

Shane turned his head away, closing his eyes.

”You could’ve saved me.” it rasped in his ear.

*

Shane opens his eyes, screaming.

Tick, tick, tick goes the clock.

The distant city noises had returned.

Shane can hear his rapid breathing, and he can feel his heartbeat pounding in his throat.

He gulps down air, as much as he can get into his lungs until it stings.

” _Ryan,”_ he gasps, throwing himself out of bed. He thunders down the hall, grabbing his keys off the hook with such force it comes out of the wall, falling to the floor. Obi, who’s become accustomed to loud noises recently, meows in annoyance from his spot on the couch.

Shane is out the door in a flash, and thundering down the stairs on bare feet. The metal creaks under his weight, and under the sheer force of his footsteps.

He runs across the sidewalk, across gravel, and throws himself into his car.

If this is what makes Shane believe in ghosts, he’s going to find Ryan’s corpse, resurrect him, and kick his ass. If Ryan _fucking haunts him_ , Shane is going to exorcise his ass so hard, that no ghost, demon, or ghoul will ever fuck with him again.

He’s speeding down the LA streets, just as he did that night when Ryan had called him. He ignores two stop signs, and he digs his nails into the wheel when he hits red lights, shaking all over.

After what feels like a century, Shane’s pulling into Ryan’s complex parking lot. He runs up the stairs to Ryan’s apartment, slipping up a couple, and his shin makes contact with the edge of one, but he can’t be bothered to give a shit.

He skids to a halt in front of Ryan’s door, and pounds on it so hard that it shakes on it’s hinges.

His heart is marching a war song against his ribs, he can’t breathe, he can barely see-

“Shane?”

Ryan is there, _alive,_ standing in his doorway. His face is tired and his hair is messy, but God, Shane has never seen anyone or anything more beautiful.

He lets out a breath, eyes darting all across Ryan’s face. 

Something within Shane snaps, and he’s _on_ Ryan in a flash, grasping his face like a drowning man would hold onto a life preserver. He kisses him, hard, and bruising. He’s in Ryan’s space, looming over him.

Ryan doesn’t respond for a second, but when he does, it’s just as needy. He throws his injured arm around the back of Shane’s neck, the crook of his elbow bringing Shane closer, and his other hand is fisting in Shane’s t-shirt, the fabric curling around his fingers tightly. He’s kissing Shane just as hard, with the same amount of feverish need and desperation, and Shane gasps into his mouth, his knees threatening to buckle.

Ryan tugs him off of the porch, and kicks the door closed, all while keeping his lips on Shane’s. Shane’s fingers are pressing into the bruise under his eye, and Shane’s stubble against his split lip stings, but God, it’s _so good._

Shane, ever the authority figure, steers Ryan toward the couch. Ryan’s knees hit the armrest, and he falls back against the cushions, pulling Shane with him.

They kiss like it’s the end of the world. Shane’s kissing Ryan like someone has told him it would be the last time. Ryan’s holding onto Shane like there is a comet careening towards Earth, destined to reduce the planet to cinders.

Shane’s hand curls around Ryan’s cast, and he’s lifting his arm up and out of the way, gently pinning Ryan’s hand above his head. It’s so deliberate and purposeful, that Ryan shivers, gasping against Shane’s lips.

Shane pulls away from Ryan’s lips to mouth at his jaw, sucking on his pulse and grazing his teeth along his Adam’s Apple. It’s not...gentle, but its not rough, either. It’s somewhere in between, soft enough to not hurt Ryan but hard enough to make Ryan’s dick grow, if possible, harder.

Shane notices, and he pauses for half a second, and then he seems to come to a decision.

Without much fanfare at all, Shane shoves his hand down Ryan’s boxers, wrapping his hand tightly around Ryan’s cock.

Ryan nearly passes out. There’s enough pre-come to slick Shane’s way, and briefly, Ryan wonders if Shane has done this before, but then Shane twists his wrist in a way that makes all cognitive thought leave Ryan’s mind.

”Oh, _fuck,”_ he gasps, hips bucking up, “Oh, my God, _Shane,”_

It’s been nearly a year since Ryan’s been touched like this, and even then, it was a one night stand, that hardly meant a thing.

This is Shane, and it means _everything._

It feels ten times better because he loves Shane. Everything is so much more intense because he _knows_ Shane. He feels safe enough to lose himself in it, in Shane’s hands, and he’s coming, harder than he has in what seems like a lifetime.

Shane swallows the cry that falls from Ryan, kissing him hard, working him through it. He only pulls his hand away when Ryan’s fingers snap around his wrist, tugging on it.

”Stop, stop, I’m gonna fucking die-,” Ryan whines, shaking underneath him.

”You better not,” Shane warns, settling his hand on Ryan’s quivering stomach, “Now that you mention it, if you ever pull that shit again,” He kisses Ryan, “If you _ever scare me_ like that again, I will-“

“You’ll what?” Ryan bites back, grinning against Shane’s lips, shoving his hand down Shane’s sweats. Shane’s cock twitches, hot and throbbing in Ryan’s palm.

Whatever Shane was about to say gets lost in a groan, and it’s Ryan’s turn to make Shane shake, and lose it. It doesn’t feel like enough, though. Ryan is competitive at heart, so he tugs his hand out of Shane’s sweats.

Shane looks at him in confusion, and Ryan takes that opportunity to sit up and push Shane back against the other end of the couch, climbing on top of him. Shane flinches a little, but pulls Ryan closer anyway.

Ryan kisses him again, slowly but surely becoming addicted to the way Shane’s mouth tastes, addicted to the scratch of his stubble. He’s never been with a guy like this, and he doubts that he would want to be with any guy but Shane. Maybe Chris Pine, _maybe_ one of the Lakers, but right now, he’s got eyes for Shane, and only Shane.

He’s getting anxious, he wants so badly to make Shane come, that without any preamble or warning, he settles himself between Shane’s legs, tugging his sweats and boxers down in one move.

 _Oh,_ Ryan thinks, _well, then._

Shane is...fuck, he’s huge. Maybe it’s just because it’s Ryan’s first time face to face with a cock that’s not his own, but _holy shit._

 _“_ Ryan,” Shane says above him, fingers curling in Ryan’s, “You don’t have to-“

”Bet.” Ryan says, gripping the base. He moves his hand a few times, squeezing slightly, watching pre-come pool out of his slit. Then, he just goes for it.

He seals his lips around the head of Shane’s dick, moving his hand in time with his tongue. It’s messy, uncoordinated and probably not very good, but Shane is so keyed up that he’s coming within a minute, so hard that it almost hurts. His hips jerk up, wholly out of his control and Ryan chokes a little, but he works Shane through it, tonguing his slit until Shane’s crying.

Ryan moves away, crawling up Shane’s body again, settling against him. He kisses Shane, languid and gentle, his thumb stroking along Shane’s cheek, wiping away the tears and sweat.

Shane wraps his arms around Ryan’s back, hugging him close. He’s still quivering a little underneath him, so Ryan pulls away, resting his forehead against Shane’s, watching him through lidded eyes.

”Breathe, big guy. I’m not going anywhere.” He whispers, trying to slow his own breathing.

”Fuck,” Shane croaks, sniffling a little, “I’m...I’m an old man, Ryan, you gotta give me some warning before you do that.”

Ryan giggles, “I’ll remember that for next time.”

”Next time?” Shane asks, opening his eyes, hope brewing in them.

”Yeah, next time, dumbass,” Ryan says, rolling his eyes fondly, “You think I’m gonna let this go? Right when it’s getting good?”

Shane _glows_ up at him, and smiles that big, toothy smile that makes Ryan’s chest fill with sparkling, bubbly joy. It fills him, he can feel it tingling in his toes, and it washes away the last dregs of doubt. 

“Then I better make it count,” Shane says, carding his fingers through Ryan’s hair. Ryan smiles, settling his head against Shane’s chest, listening to his heart.

They drift off just as the sun is starting to rise. Warm, amber sunlight fills the room as they sleep, carrying with it a new day, and a new life.

*

The bar was loud. Too loud, and it was starting to make Ryan’s head hurt. The mixture of the loud chatter and laughter, along with the music thrumming in his head was getting to be too much.

Ryan slapped a couple twenty dollar bills on the bar, and turned to take his leave. As he made his way through the bar, pushing past people, he didn’t notice that he was being watched. A couple of men, who had been tucked into a corner booth had their eyes trained on him. 

Ryan knew, deep down, that he was acting out of character. Typically, he wouldn’t ever go to a bar to alleviate his misery. Usually, he just stayed at home, put on a game, and would wallow for a bit until he felt better.

He couldn’t stand being cooped up any longer, though. Looking around his two bedroom, he had felt an uncharacteristic sense of bubbling rage, and he just had to get out of there.

He couldn’t exactly pinpoint the source of his sour mood. There were so many things it could be. Work was hard right now, what with all of the layoffs, half of his team being fired, and things were tense between him and Shane. 

It had become such a monster, Buzzfeed. Every time he researched a new video, his fucking skin would crawl. Every time he was stuck in a meeting with higher ups, he would want to flip a table. They were always so _condescending,_ talking to him like he didn’t know how to do his own fucking job. For Christ’s sake, he had started Unsolved with a tiny little budget, in a converted storage closet.

Somehow, that little bit of magic had grown into something bigger, and they were just trying to fucking ruin it, all for the sake of money, of revenue. It was soul sucking, mind numbing and generally just a shitty time.

He was out of the bar now, stepping into the cool night air. The breeze on his skin was nice, and it helped to sober him up a little. He pulled his hoodie around himself a little more, and began to walk. Without aim, and without really thinking. He didn’t think to take out his phone and call an Uber. Behind him, the bar door swung open again. Ryan didn’t take notice.

He ducked into an alley. Only then, a sense of foreboding came over him. It was dark, too dark, and his drunk eyes were having trouble adjusting to the change in the light. He sped up, wanting to make it out onto the street. He could see a little restaurant in the distance, and he knew that would be a good place to call a car from. Visible. Open.

He never got the chance.

God, it all happened so fast.

Two hands fisted in his hoodie, pulling him back roughly, and slamming him back against the wall. Ryan gasped in pain, coughing from the sudden impact, doubling over.

“Give me your wallet.” A voice said in his ear, while fingers curled into his short hair, yanking it back.

He was face to face with some guy. He had a cruel sneer, and briefly, Ryan was put in mind of Joe Pesci from Home Alone. This guy was older, maybe sixty, sixty-five. Didn’t he have anything better to do? If he booked it, he could probably make it back in time for the Early Bird Special at Golden Corral.

Something sparked within Ryan, a shock of defiance. He pushed the dude back, his muscles finally coming in handy. 

“Why don’t you take it from me?” He slurred, “Come on, old man. Show me what it was like in Vietnam.”

Joe, as Ryan was coming to think of him, gave him a look. It was plain that many people didn’t fight back. Most people complied. Well, this was just the cherry on top of a shitty week, and Ryan wasn’t going to let this old fuck walk all over him. Not today.

Joe swung. Ryan ducked, landing a neat little right hook on Joe’s jaw. Ryan, contrary to popular belief, had never been in a fight in his life. He was holding up against this dude though. Time, and the inescapable curse of aging was on his side. The old guy fell back into old habits, sparring the way he did in his youth. His muscles, his bones, all were much too old, much too overworked.

Ryan’s advantage lasted only seconds though. The darkness seemed to move, to engulf Ryan. Later, he would realize that the darkness hadn’t moved at all, but a monolith of a man had come running down the alley, body slamming Ryan for all he was worth. Ryan was thrown like a stuffed animal against the dumpster. His head made contact with the corner of it, and pain, hot and sharp, ran through him like a hot knife through butter.

His phone flew out of his pocket, and skittered under the dumpster.

Dazed, Ryan stood back up. He swayed on the spot, but he raised his fists again. This new dude was _so_ tall, that Ryan was convinced that there had to be some supernatural interference. Seriously, humans didn’t ever grow like that. This dude was taller than anyone Ryan had ever fucking met. He was built like a bear and a silver back gorilla all at the same time. His hands, covered in innumerable scars, were weathered, but upon craning his neck as far as it would go, he saw youth shining in this guy’s face. He was probably only a few years younger than Ryan. Twenty-seven, at most.

“So, what?” Ryan spat, using his sleeve to wipe the blood out of his eye, “You a team? You...You get this old fuck to hold people up,” he pointed at Joe, his hand shaking as he did, “and if it don’t go his way, you come out?” He gestured to the other guy.

“Fuckin’ coward.”

That was the last straw for Joe and his pet mountain, apparently.

Ryan doesn’t remember much, but he remembers his face being slammed against the brick wall. He remembers having his arms pinned behind his back, and being punched in the ribs, until they cracked. He remembers being on the ground, and a moment of silence, a moment of reprieve, and then _excruciating_ pain. Pain that tore through him, that forced a scream of anguish from his lungs.

One of them, he never knew which one, had stomped down with all of their might on his left hand, breaking it with such force, that Ryan was sure he’d never, ever be able to use it again.

And that’s where they had left him. Broken, bleeding on wet concrete, crouched in the shadow of a dumpster.

He was coughing, choking on the blood pouring from his nose. He was crying, the salty tears stinging all the way down. Every single part of his body hurt, and his hand, his precious hand that had gripped cameras, had typed across keyboards, had been thrown across his chest in a fit of laughter, the hand that had stopped Shane from opening Annabelle’s cage, was broken, seemingly beyond repair.

 _Shane_ , Ryan thought, _Shane._

Oh, that idiot. That big, dumb, _wonderful_ idiot. Despite the pain, Ryan smiled. Euphoria coursed through him, mixing in with the shock that was settling in, and the adrenaline that was rapidly leaving. 

Ryan thought of his face, his eyes, that stupid hair and how tall he was. He thought of early morning airplane rides, and evening drives to haunted locations. He thought of the way that Shane’s face looked in the rising sun, after an investigation. Tired and bleary, but playing it up for the camera all the same. 

He thought of the way Shane looked at him in those meetings, when the higher-ups were talking down to them. His lips pressed together in a thin line, doubt and panic surging in his eyes, yet above all, defiance. 

He thought of the way that Shane laughed. That tell-tale wheeze. He laughed like joy was being squeezed from him, and Ryan couldn’t help but smile each time he did, he couldn’t help but laugh along with him.

Ryan wondered if this was his life flashing before his eyes. He wondered if Shane was the last thought he was ever going to have.

 _No_ , Ryan thought, forcing himself onto his stomach. He pushed himself on one hand, into a crouching position.

 _No_ , he thought again, bending to grab his phone, his hand scraping across gravel as he tried to reach it.

Finally, his fingers curled around the cool glass and plastic, and he pulled it towards him.

The screen was completely smashed, and so he held down the home button. He heard that tell-tale _bloop-bloop_ _! ,_ and he pressed his lips close to the bottom of the phone.

"Siri," he croaked, "Call Shane Madej."

A second's pause. Another tell-tale _bloop!_

"Calling Shane Madej."

**Author's Note:**

> I HATE THIS FIC
> 
> not really, i don't really hate this fic. i love this fic. 
> 
> i've been working on it for the better part of a year. my first draft clocked in at a little over 10,00 words, but my constant need to compare myself to others stalled the progress of this fic considerably. i would delete stuff, go back and add it in, delete it again. its exhausting. i would have ideas for scenes in the fic, which would make me have to go back and change details to make it flow.  
> i'm nothing if not thorough, and god dammit, this fic is my moby dick. i will kill this fic, skin it, and bring back the meat and pelt to my village, victorious over my kill.  
> maybe not quite as dramatic as that, but still, this fic is a mountain i must climb.  
> at the time of writing this end note, i have just barely finished writing it. i am *exhausted*, and there was a part that i couldn’t put in without going back and changing the whole thing, which i am sad about, but overall, i had a fun time. I’m currently in college, and ideas for this dumbass fic kept coming to me while i was trying to do my schoolwork, so i figured that i would just shove the rest of it together, and put it out, so it would finally leave me alone. It’s not perfect, and its not what exactly what i wanted it to be, but hey! It’s mine, and i love it.
> 
> thanks for reading, truly. i sincerely welcome any thoughts you may have. <3 xoxo.


End file.
